Of Ink and Stars
by WhyTheRobin
Summary: Arthur held himself in such a manner which breathed a foul mixture of aristocracy and indifference to those who surrounded him. His pale and angled smiles twitched in a way which insisted he wanted to say more than what he actually did say, and that his mind was at perpetual war between what he could say and what he mustn't say. Alfred decides to disrupt this lifestyle. ONESHOT


Of Ink and Stars

A piece of wisdom had been imparted to those who were about to meet Arthur Kirkland. Arthur was a manageable man when it pleased him. At his worst: little better than a beast. At his best: little more than a husk.

He wrote. People were told this with a wave and a laugh, like it were an excuse for all of his antics. Arthur Kirkland wrote terribly good stories. He could get away with being a stiff and ashen fellow as long as he wrote. It was the mind that needed to write, not the face that accompanied it and certainly not the personality that shattered the illusion.

The enigma that was Arthur Kirkland held himself in such a manner which breathed a foul mixture of aristocracy and indifference to those who surrounded him. His pale and angled smiles twitched in a way which insisted he wanted to say more than what he actually did say, and that his mind was at perpetual war between what he _could_ say and what he _mustn't_ say. A drink was suspended by his fingertips at all times, brandy or tea depending on the situation.

He was a writer in every sense of the word. He always thought, most of the time with a finger at his lips and a small tug at the corner of them when he thought of something incredible. He was an observer, and yet he was also a parasite. Bottle green eyes would often flutter over crowds, leaping from face to face, judging (always judging) those who passed him by. Arthur examined and leered and smirked but never said so much as a word. It would ruin the fun if he talked to them.

And then only after Arthur found someone incredibly interesting, and this could take anywhere from a few hours to weeks and months, only then would Arthur break out his typewriter and buy his paper. He'd write a note to his publisher—scrawled out in immaculate cursive and signed with an inkblot—what exactly his book was going to be about. Arthur would then effectively shut himself in his house until his fingers would stain black and his leg would cramp from being in perpetual motion for so long.

Arthur's novels were long and tiresome and fantastic as could be. With a purpose he wrote his characters to be an unbearable as possible. Bearable enough to root for, obviously, but they'd hold such incredibly human faults that would leave the reader satisfied or at least not extremely depressed after they ceased to exist. And, Arthur didn't like any of his own characters anyway so that was that.

His circle was a small one, remote and tucked away in shadows. He allowed a company of three or four to join him. Five was right out. Only one person was allowed to be in his presence when a deadline was due, and he was a burden. If you asked some socialites they would suggest they were friends in recent years and enemies in the past. Birds of a feather that argued about who flew higher. Francis Bonnefoye and Arthur Kirkland, the dreadful duo.

Another book had been released, and another muse had been cast aside. Arthur meant nothing by dropping his darlings on the side of curbs (and he meant this all metaphorically, of course) they were simply of no use to him anymore. He couldn't write another story using the _same_ characters repeatedly; such a thing would be a disgrace to his craft. Nothing personal.

Francis had decided, one day, that it wasn't Arthur who was depressed. It was his writing. He had declared such a statement while removing his reading spectacles, however cliché Arthur thought it was at the time. Another bad habit of Arthur's; he picked out everyday clichés.

Arthur's eyebrows had been a method of mockery when he was a younger boy. An unseen blessing from having such monstrosities on his face was that one couldn't tell when they knitted together.

"That's the same thing,"

Francis shakes both his hands and his head. "No, no, no. This is where people confuse the two. Writers are a fickle and deceiving creatures, worthy of study and their own classification if you ask me," Arthur never had, but swirls his brandy as a reply, "we simply need to find you appropriate company."

Arthur returns to his typewriter, placing his brandy to the side to clack-clack-clack away against ice. It's almost sickening good music. "Appropriate company, yes, I could use some of that."

The Frenchman places his reading glasses back to his nose. "Try as you may, you'll never get rid of me. I'll just see who I can connect you with. Preferably someone with a dry sense of sarcasm that you seem so fond of,"

"God no." He taps his fingers across the machine in a droll rhythm. His writing style, much like his life philosophy, is to not think about the errors that stare him in the face. He couldn't give a damn about those stupid errors until his deadline wears close. "I don't work well with mirrors,"

"Is that because you can't look yourself in the eyes?" Francis asks.

A crude hand gesture is Arthur's response.

Clack-clack-clack.

"For the record, no. It is because sarcasm is the lowest form of humour and the most biting." He sighs theatrically. "Not that you would know anything about humour. But you do know something about coupling, however brief the engagements are. Do you even remember that last girl's name?"

Francis makes a disgusted sound as he adjusts his reading glasses. "Yes." He insists. Arthur swivels his chair. He glares.

"No."

Arthur almost smiles at that, his shoulders jumping with small laughs as he returns to the typewriter. Francis opens Hemmingway, "It was Abby. Her name was Abby. Abby."

"Anne." Says Arthur.

"Anne. Anne! Ah yes, Anne, such a lovely name and such lovely features with that name." Arthur snorts, drawing his friend from daydreams of blonde. "I _suppose_ if you weren't so dreary all the time I could arrange a friend or two to casually drop by and speak to you~" Francis hums.

"No." Says Arthur. "No, don't bring anyone over."

Francis nearly gasps, but that would have required he be surprised.

He leans over Hemingway, chin in hands. "Oh, do you know what this does to little old _moi_?People do not know that you speak, dear. They only know that you that you write and…drink."

And the Englishman nods, pauses his work, and picks up his second work. He grins and it is a frightening thing to witness. His eyes are on the clock as brings it to his twitching lips. "2:32, here's to a busy day." With a quick snap of the wrist, he finishes his brandy. Francis grimaces when he nearly throws the glass down on his desk, finally swallowing the burning drink. The ice still snaps against the glass more sharply.

Such was the life of Arthur Kirkland.

XXX

Now, Alfred Jones was a different sort of man.

There had been laughter at every stop of Alfred's life. At first it had blessed him through the form of a jovial sound that resonated from deep within his chest. By no means was it an attractive sound, it was loud and blunt and positively _shocking_ to the ear. It was the kind of laughter that suited no one, and yet was the quintessence of what all laughter should sound like. A truly disturbing sound.

But, by God was it was _memorable_.

Alfred Jones had a _memorable_ demeanor, but whether or not that was a pleasant thing was purely up to the conversations he carried. He was beautiful, there was no one to refute that fact. He was a tall, spectacled, athletic fellow with a young face and youthful personality. Someone had once told Alfred he would amount to great things. Whoever told him this did him a great disservice.

His silver tongue would grant him many things in life. With a tip of the head he could convey what a thousand words could not. A fleeting touch on the shoulder could stop a conversation dead in its tracks. Alfred Jones was a wild child, a daredevil in its final form. It was in his body language, facial expressions, and the way he moved and flowed through the room that ignited the scenery that was New York.

While most socialites sat comfortably in their freshly manufactured cars, Alfred said no to such a thing. As his troupe would race across the city, he would pass off his drink. His hand would slam to the dashboard and a fiery declaration would be made over the sound of wind. His passengers would whoop and holler, the driver speeding up ever so slightly. And then Alfred would take a step up, heels pressed into the leather seats. Wind would rake through his hair and pull at his suits and people would cheer and laugh and drink. He would step up to the dashboard and laugh with merriment as his companions cheered him on. He would stretch out his arms as they crossed over bridges and yell at the top of his lungs; the yell of a young man who had the world at his fingertips.

And then he'd crash into the arms of someone, anyone really. He'd laugh and claim that that was the _best thing he'd ever done_ and offer to buy everyone a burger if one of them had the guts to do such a thing. They'd all chastise him for being wild while secretly wishing they had the courage (or the lack of sense) to do all of the daring things he did.

Someone once called him crazy.

And he'd laughed such a thunderous laugh that expelled pure happiness, resting his head on the lap of someone who didn't have the need to push him away. His eyes shined, a cowlick would bobbed, and tears formed. "Maybe!" He wiped under his spectacles with a dirty hand. "Yeah, I think I am!"

It was the life that only Alfred F. Jones could manage, but he managed his activities in such a style that few accused him of troublemaking.

He was a poor boy. From Kansas, or Oklahoma. Nobody knew. His childhood changed with each moonlit retelling, and no one could pin down a relative to check his stories.

It was said that he was born in a horse ranch. Then, he escaped—it was never 'left', because that would imply he wanted to stay— to a small city. Then, a talent agent had found his 'certain bone structure' appealing. Then, he ducked out of the War to start in the bond business, which failed. And then, he wound up in the Big Apple surrounded by friends and rich people and sharp liquor.

Such was the life of Alfred F. Jones.

XXX

There was once a café where the drinks were scalding and the air was frigid. The walls had been painted a warm maroon color at the turn of the century, but tired and chipped away at the third month. Twenty years had passed since then. The floorboards moaned as patrons (and there were so _few_ patrons) stumbled across them, no matter how light a footfall claimed to be. There was once a beautiful woman who tended the café, one with auburn hair and a comely face. Now she, like the sad shack, has bones that creak as she hobbles to and fro. The furnishings dotting the floor are used and lived in, with depressions and faded cloth on each seat.

Arthur sits comfortably in one such seat. Today, a too-hot teacup is held in his fingers. The tea has not been made correctly; he can taste it with a grimace as he places it off to the side. Normally he would be disgusted at such an outrage. Yanks can never do tea quite right. There is always something wrong about it when they try, something off.

But if the tea selection were the reason he were here, Arthur would be a pitiful individual. No, he sits in a chair across no one. He is beside no one. The floor is disturbed by no one. He is alone. Out in public, yes, but he is so wonderfully alone.

He is comfortable.

And then _he_ arrives.

Arthur will swear on his grave that it was no coincidence he arrives just as Arthur slips into a state of half-sleep relaxation. No, it was by some greater force that caused his relaxation to be disturbed in such a terrible, horrifying, disgusting manner.

The door opens, but Arthur will never describe it as 'opening'. No, that would imply that someone had cared about where they were going; that the person had the decency to not scare an eighty year old woman half to death as the door ricochets off the red walls with a thunderous BANG.

Arthur jumps, a string of curses tumbling from his lips as every muscle in his body seizes. As the shock of being so terribly yanked from his relaxation wears, he refocuses his attention on the intruder in the doorway.

He glares at the silhouette as it crosses from light to dark. An ankle reaches behind the door and kicks it closed.

He glares as his eyes adjust to see a dark blue suit and light blond hair. A cowlick salutes from a side part, ridiculous in its unconformity.

He glares when the blond boy begins to whistle as he approaches the counter. Ignoring other patrons glaring at him. Despicable.

Arthur continues to glare—as that is what he does best—and reaches for his tea cup. The faux-gangster voice is what Arthur expects from the blond. A low, bored, none-too-impressed tone if his assumptions are correct. He will ask if the woman has seen someone. He will press the elderly woman for information, probably scaring her out of her money. Arthur knows this. He decides it with a sharpened green glare.

But what he _knows_ and what he _gets_ are two entirely different things.

"Hey pretty lady, how much for a cola?" Arthur's glare wanes for a moment, but returns in full force. Ingrid—blessed Ingrid with a crick in her back and stiff fingers—shrinks back into the liquor cabinet.

The voice is still loud and happy when it continues. "Whoops, didn't mean to scare you like that. I know my voice is loud and I've been trying to fix that some. Guess it's not working so well! So, how about that coke?" He leans on the counter and rests his weight on his elbows, chin in hands. Arthur scoffs, but the boy continues to bat his undoubtedly long eyelashes at the started hag.

"She doesn't speak English." Arthur says. He twists around to stare straight ahead, before the blond can notice he was staring. One eyebrow is quirked when he continues, "She never had to learn when she was younger."

He knows that the American will bluster through several apologies before pointing to all sorts of bottles on the rack. He will get his drink eventually. And then he will leave. Arthur will be alone and he will console-

There is a face inches from his when he opens his eyes. He does _not_ yelp, though a sound torn between a gasp and a shriek escapes him.

"What language does she speak?" The voice asks.

Arthur cannot recover from his heart attack. His eyes narrow from their widened state. His upper lip curls back. "Considering this is the German portion of New York, what do you think?"

Blue eyes blink. The cowlick seems to nod before the boy's head does. "German. Shoulda figured that one out."

He bites back a 'you think' when he realizes the face has retreated from his. Arthur takes an angry gulp of his tea. German tumbles from the same annoying voice that had accompanied those eyelashes. His grip on the tea cup strengthens.

 _You're not supposed to know German_. Arthur struggles down a throatfull of tea when he hears Ingrid laugh with the boy. His relaxation is completely compromised now. No going back. He may never return to this dreadful place. Ever.

Just as he's about to get up to leave, the blue suit returns. And, oh, how Arthur _glares_ when he takes a seat across from him. It slouches and lets out a happy sigh. "So, you're German then?"

"English." Arthur regrets ever learning how to talk. It only encourages others to speak to him.

"Knew it!" The boy celebrates and says something to Ingrid who giggles foolishly. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Yes, fascinating."

As Arthur's about to stand again, a hand darts out from the blue suit. Arthur stares at it. "Alfred F. Jones, pleased to meet you."

There is no escaping the handshake. He meets the extended hand with a weak wrist and a voice sour with contempt. "Arthur Kirkland. I'm…meeting you."

Arthur does not know what the next sound is, but it is loud. Alfred's blue eyes are bright and undeterred. "I'm bothering you, huh?"

There is an awkward silence, and Arthur wrinkles his nose and eyes. Hopefully if he stretches his lips wide enough his smile will look real. "I just have other places to be." He gestures to the door and to the teacup with his free hand. "And I'm all out of tea, so there's really no use staying…"

Alfred lets his hand go. He breaks eye contact and sniffs. "Not a problem. You look like a busy person. And we all got shit we need to do." He looks up and grins slowly.

Arthur begins to walk away. His true expression of contempt is replaced easily. Alfred follows his gaze to the door. "Shit indeed."

Alfred grins, and Arthur decides it is too bright of a smile to look at. He turns away and forces open the door. He thinks Alfred says one more thing to him, but he doesn't care. Why couldn't he have been born a _mute_?

What if one of his characters could not speak? Arthur stuffs his hands into his pockets. His lower lip juts, like it always does when he thinks of an idea. That would be an interesting story. A character that could not speak, and is always ignored.

One who knows who committed the terrible murder next door, but unable to say anything. His parents think he's challenged, when he's actually brilliant. He has to write the police. No, too easy. He must _escape_ to tell the police. The murderer is his father. No, too conclusive. He just barely manages to tell the police officer when he remembers the murder had a scar above his upper lip. And the police officer he's telling has the same scar. Yes. Then the book ends.

Arthur smirks, and makes an immediate left to head to his office. He has enough tape to type this story. He smirks. Maybe he could submit it to a new publishing house. One without certain Frenchmen. That would be something.

XXX

Snobbery runs thick through Arthur's veins as he finished rewriting his eighth chapter for the sixth and final time. Normally he rewrites his chapters three times before he deems them acceptable. But this time he wants his protagonist to _suffer._ The book is but a humble eight chapters, averaging twenty pages. But, between the simplistic hardback remained one of the most vile, unsettling, and yet agonizingly beautiful tales that had ever graced the English language.

But, Arthur never settles for brusque brakes and laughable 'pacing' when he writes his stories. He writes an epic conclusion to the life of his mute protagonist in three days. Those sleepless days yield the best death scene he'd ever written thus far. And Arthur was damned proud of it.

He nearly rips the final page from the typewriter before stuffing it under the near thirty page pile, growling lowly. Francis picks up the pile and sits in his normal window seat.

"Is it good?" Francis asks, eyes flickering between Arthur and the piece of literature.

Arthur lights a cigarette.

Francis perches his reading glasses at his nose with a smirk. "Excellent."

Arthur alternates between dragging out his cigarette lustfully and staring out his window. Francis surprises him when he speaks, cheer in his voice. "I saw that boy the other day, you know. The one you told me about before you…caged yourself here. Alfred something." His grin grows. "I could talk to him, if you would like."

Perhaps if Arthur had been born a forgiving man, or even a more patient one, he would have acknowledged Francis' words. Arthur can only make the most disgusting face as a reply, all but collapsing across his desk. "Just read the fucking chapter."

Two hundred and thirty minutes later Francis' disgusted snarl morphs into something nearly joyful. "That was _incredibly_ disturbing. Quality work," he nods at the final page, "Yet disturbing,"

"As it should be," is his grunted reply.

Francis begins to laugh again, resting his head in both hands wistfully. "Your experience with Alfred yielded some quality work, my dear. It might do you some good to see him again."

Arthur settles into his chair. What he says is true, Arthur, knows. He hasn't had that kind of inspiration to write in a long time. He closes his eyes and releases a hearty sigh. "I would rather tweeze my own pubic hair,"

XXX

But of course, what else could be the favorite pastime of French if not torturing the English?

Spring had spun its dance into a blistering summer. As per summertime ritual, all windows in his building were ordered to open by a certain Frenchman. One who, despite his admonition of how awful Arthur's office was, preferred to remain inside it at all times. Brown curtains were drawn and stapled thoroughly to the walls lining the window, courtesy of Arthur Kirkland himself. He had particularly enjoyed Francis reaction when he first saw them.

Arthur was, by any definition, an upstanding and well fitted working-class gentleman. And as any upstanding and well fitted working-class gentleman might, heat and humidity were his inborn enemies. By noon Arthur's cordially crisp collar sweltered and wilted like a dying daffodil, no matter how starched it had been morning prior. His face reddened something terrible, his face shone with perspiration, and her hair matted even further to his scalp.

But it is not the heat that bothers him today. Oh no, it is something far more insidious.

Francis is plotting.

There are no other words to describe how he looks at this moment. His grin shakes and his face tilts, a very ominous shadow darkening his features. He is seated, but not in his usual seat by the opened window. He's resting in the chair by the door, crouched really, like a cat before the mouse. He plots his face with a handkerchief, embroidered exquisitely with a purple scripted F. That handkerchief can only mean one thing.

Plotting.

"Arthur," Francis says, slowly. "I'm going to go to lunch soon,"

The only response Arthur gives is a straight hum. He checks the wall clock, typing. "It _is_ a usual time for one to eat lunch."

Francis begins to nod absentmindedly. "We could go together," He says with as much nonchalance as possible. Arthur rotates in his chair. His eyebrows draw together. "That is, three of us would go together. I could never walk the streets with the likes of you _alone,_ but perhaps if we had a bit between us. . ." Francis makes a grotesque noise at the base of his throat.

"You disturb me. No." This does not deter the Frenchman in the slightest.

In fact, he grins. "Oh! Good. Good. You should lose a touch of weight anyway. Suit yourself if you want to remain a _hermit_ for the rest of your days." Arthur rolls his eyes and rolls back to his typewriter.

"I welcome my fate,"

There is a knock on the door and Arthur cannot so much as sit up before Francis is on it. Smooth as a swan on water, he glides the door open and welcomes the individual into Arthur's study. His voice is amber when he does exchange a greeting.

Arthur raises his hand, eyes remained focused on the words appearing before him. "Have a nice lunch, I hope you choke on your baguette."

"Hey I know that voice!"

Arthur seizes.

He swivels his chair to face the doorway. Arthur stares at the cowlick and its ridiculous nonconformity. There must have been a period of time where Arthur is stationary, for he does not hear anything but the tic-tic-tic of his wall clock.

But is his 'guest' silent for very long?

"It's me, Alfred. We-uh-we met in that little café earlier."

Arthur smiles thinly, but does not saying anything.

Oh, how he _loathes_ Francis.

Francis puts one hand on Alfred's shoulder and with the other taps the book oh-so-conveniently placed on the chair by the door. The one he never sits in. Bastard. "Arthur is the writer I was talking about earlier. He can never seem to stop working, always so diligent." He ought to throw that chair out of the window. That would send a message.

Alfred grins, bright and wide. Arthur stretches is his smile. His eyes flicker to Francis, who sadism shines through his sneer, "Alfred and I run in the same social circles, and I haven't seen him in oh so long. Ah, how long has it been dear?" He reminiscences, putting a clichéd hand to his chest and breathing deeply. _Bastard_.

The blond pushes his glasses up his nose and shakes his head. "Ah I don't remember that far back," Arthur taps his fingernails on the arm of his chair while his eyes narrow slightly. Alfred quickly turns and looks at Arthur. It's such a strong stare that Arthur can't help but meet it. When he does, Alfred's grin is slow and deceivingly charming.

"So Arthur, we were just going to grab lunch together. You wanna join?"

"No, no, I'm..." Arthur gestures to his manuscript behind him. He makes his nose crinkle "Pretty busy here. Working. It's a new thing, you should try-"

"We can bring something back," Francis interrupts. Arthur's head snaps to his. He has to fight everything that comprises him not to change his expression besides the slight narrowing of the eyes.

"That's a great idea! What do you want us to get you Arthur?"

So this is what Francis has been plotting.

"Sandwiches?" Alfred offers, disturbingly sincere.

"No, I don't want your-"

"No, no, he doesn't like sandwiches." Francis interrupts with a sickeningly false look of thoughtfulness.

"Oh. Yeah, sure, no sandwiches, got it. Um, we could get some pizza?" Arthur can physically feel his annoyance toward the American grow with every passing second.

"Absolutely no-"

"Pizzas too hard to transport, and too busy this hour."

"Bagels?"

No. He had that for breakfast. Francis knows this.

"That sounds _wonderful_. _"_

Alfred brightens and turns to Arthur for what he hopes will be an approving nod. Before he can, Francis sharply spins him away and whisks him out of the room. Alfred, despite his apparent stupidity, turns and shoots Arthur one last smile. Francis quickly distracts him so he can't see Arthur's expression in return.

In thirty minutes the two of them return with a cream cheese bagel and sweating glass of lemonade. Alfred knocks on the door twice before entering. Alfred hands it over with a grin and a wink, and Arthur has to restrain himself not to gag or roll his eyes.

The bagel is burnt. Arthur throws it away.

XXX

This becomes a weekly occurrence. Why Francis insists on bringing the blond fool around, Arthur does not initially understand.

Sadism. Arthur assures himself of this every time he is assaulted with lemonade and a lone cream cheese bagel. Sometimes Arthur eats it. Most of the time, he doesn't. Always, Arthur prays that one of them will be hit by a bus on the way here.

After the delivery, Alfred hops away from his office like a small rabbit. A cotton-wearing, straight-toothed, carrot eating, no good sonofabitch rabbit. Quiet is not within the American's vocabulary. Arthur seizes each time the door slams; all ten fingers slamming down on the keys at once.

He glares at all of the letters typed in his disturbance.

Oh, how he _hates_ that man.

One day, Alfred brings two bagels. Alfred sits in the chair by the window with a content sound. He unwraps the second bagel and takes a greedy bite. Arthur glares and, for the first time, Alfred can see it.

His eyes widen and he chokes his bagel down. "Oh! Right. Um, Francis said that he had something to do so he won't be back today…So I thought we could eat together today!" He smiles a bit uneasily.

Arthur unwraps his own bagel with much more care. He feels one eyebrow jump. "Ah, did you?"

"Yeah, you don't mind do you?"

 _Yes._

"…I am working." He says. He curls his fingers at home row. "I like there to be complete silence while I write." Alfred nods.

"I understand." Arthur nearly sighs in relief. Alfred grabs his lemonade from the bookshelf. He takes a big gulp before walking back to his seat. "I'll be quiet."

Hate was the wrong word. It is far too gentle.

He prefers the collection homicide-seeker

XXX

For Alfred's credit, he is silent when he appears at his office unaccompanied every now and again. He opens the door quieter. His bagel is already unwrapped before he enters. He sits at the window and watches the world move below. Arthur eventually opens his bagel and nibbles on it every now and again until there's nothing left. Sometimes he catches himself making polite conversation with Alfred.

Alfred leaves at one o'clock every day. He takes both of their cups and wrappers with him. He is a little loud on the leaving part, Arthur laments. Always laughs at his own joke. "Same time, same place, yeah?" Arthur no longer pretends to find it funny. He leaves. Arthur works.

Arthur continues to type up a rewritten chapter of his latest novel. He's stuck between killing off the romantic character or letting her live. This novel is a bit different than what he normally writes. Contained within are grotesque descriptions of murder and beheadings, ploys and schemes, and the most _annoying_ characters he has even written about. In this book as well, there is also mages and witchcraft. Difficult to write, Arthur knows. It's difficult to keep track of the mage codes and spells while keeping it realistic.

Alfred collects the trash from Arthur's desk and opens the door. "Wait a moment, Alfred." Arthur turns in his chair.

If he didn't know any better, he would say that the American looked shocked.

Arthur sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

He pursues his lips. "Suppose… there was a woman in your life. Romantically. This woman takes care of you, cooks for you, and never so much as bats an eyelash when you make mistakes—and you do often make mistakes."

Alfred rolls his tongue in his cheek. He smiles. "We talking from personal experience here?" This cocky grin suits him better, Arthur thinks.

"Don't be a twat when people ask you for advice." He says, "She's a…nice girl, pretty, but annoying with her simplicity. How would you react if she were to die?" Arthur figures the boy standing before him must know something about relationships.

Nonetheless, Alfred's face screws. "Die?"

"Yes, in an inferno or an automobile accident." He says, splaying his hands and nodding to himself. Personally, Arthur wanted Ethel to die in an automobile accident. But perhaps Alfred preferred a more dramatic fashion. He figures his audience is more inclined to mirror Alfred rather than himself. "It's for my latest piece. Have you heard about it? The first chapter was included within a literature magazine last August."

Alfred shifts his weight. "Erm… Can't say I have. What's the guy in the book like?"

"Uncouth. Boorish. Good intentions, but terrible executions. Likes to think he is a hero of some sort. That he's helping, or at least is a lawful good in the world of terrible people. Truthfully, he's just a boy. With a girlfriend who _has_ to die in order for character development." Arthur explains as if he were explaining the weather. His fingers do a little flourish with his final two words.

Alfred leans against the doorframe. "Well, she sounds more like a mother than a girlfriend." Arthur's head snaps up as if offended. "I'm not saying she isn't a strong character. The guy sounds like he might have baggage." Arthur can practically see realization defog Alfred's face, "or maybe _she_ does!"

Alfred crushes a fist in an open palm. Arthur jerks his head away in disgust. "If you must be creative in my office, please refrain from making that cliché motion ever again."

XXX

When they met next, it was at the same German establishment. When Arthur entered, he was startled by the amount of people inside. There was a line to the counter comprised of young and beautiful individuals. Ingrid looks up behind the counter brightly with a pad of paper in her hand. She waves Arthur over.

From what Arthur gathers, a great many people have appeared seemingly out of blue wishing to invest in Ingrid's business. Ingrid exclaims that her business has never done so well before with a twinkle in her old and drooping eyes. She's even learning English now. Awful American-English, but English nonetheless.

Arthur sits in his usual chair with a sigh. "I had a pulled pork sandwich last week." He says plainly.

Alfred looks up. His eyes brighten and he quickly folds his paper. He extends a carton of cigarettes cheap, smirking triumphantly. Arthur takes one. "Oh yeah, what'd you think about it?" His lips were _twitching_ with glee, the Briton noticed. Twitching.

Idiot.

"I was with my secretary and specifically asked her where I could find one." Arthur pulls his own matches out, declining Alfred's scarcely supplied matchbox with a wave. "She was rather enthusiastic about the whole ordeal, you know. She pulled several people from their work to ask about the 'perfect' place for me. They had a whole discussion," he pauses to light his cigarette and puff, "but in the end settled to drag me to an excuse for a restaurant. Very suspicious looking, mind you. Health codes were not met. They ordered three sandwiches, all of which _smelled_ good but were so drowned in sauce I had no idea what to do with them." They observe the street outside in comfortable silence, occasionally taking drags and exhaling. Finally Arthur shrugs.

"It wasn't awful,"

Alfred groans and hunches his shoulders, chin connecting to the chest. "You're impossible to please," He shakes his head, but his eyes wrinkle at the edges. "Do you want some coffee, by the way?"

"I prefer tea," Arthur answers.

Alfred looks over both shoulders quickly and lowers his voice. "You know," he taps his nails on the table and cleared his throat. A devious smirk both lights and darkens his expression, if it were possible. The image of the city lights on a clear evening jumps to Arthur's head. "That's not American tea you're drinking. I wouldn't go around telling anyone but… We Americans still have tea. You know, out of the harbor. It's sweeter than that stuff"

Arthur crosses a leg at the knee, constructing a triangle gap. "Did you just make a history joke?"

The blond boy snorts. "Don't be ridiculous."

There is another bout of silence when they made eye contact. Arthur's the first to turn away, cigarette returning to his lips.

"I heard about you the other day, someone was talking about you." Says Alfred. He snuffs out his cigarette with a grimace. "They said you won another award for your work. Also said you didn't deserve it because you're a bastard."

That makes him smile, if only a little bit. "And _who_ is saying such cruel things about me this time?" Again, a fake gasp escapes his pursed lips. Again, the sideways eye contact is made. It's challenging and dark.

It's Alfred's turn to shrug. "Someone dumb and rich and not on the literary committee, or whatever. Is a literary committee even a thing? Or is that, like, a nightmare used to scare newborn baby writers?"

"Newborn baby writers? Please, we writers are forged out of insecurities and a lack of expression at age eight." Alfred laughs.

"What do you do?" Arthur asks suddenly, fascinated. He unhooks his legs and leans on one knuckle, monstrous eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing. Despite his better judgment, he has been asking himself this very question for a week or so now. Arthur, honing his naturally creative and curious mind, thought up as many professions that could have Alfred wind up in the same social circle that (by proxy) included Arthur. He could be an entertainer, but Arthur had heard him sing during lunch one and it was dreadful. Arthur threw a magazine at him to shut him up. However, the other options seemed to be too boring for a man like Jones.

Blue eyes sparkle and he makes a dramatic show of mirroring Arthur's knuckle-on-chin posture. His lips quirk and his speech turns lethargic and husky, "Well, Mr. Kirkland, I guess you'll never, ever-"

"Are you a prostitute?"

Alfred reels and made a noise of torn between shock and horror. A _delightful_ noise, Arthur decides with a giggle. "How could you ask something like that!?"

"That wasn't a _no_." A Cheshire Cat grin stretches across his face.

"Wh-why I never!" He says. "I don't know whether or not I should be insulted."

Arthur chuckles around his spent cigarette. His head tips gracefully to one side. "You don't?"

"Yeah, I don't. Because on one hand; you're calling me a whore and asking if I'm for sale or something." A dangerous grin gobbles up Alfred's features. He winks and laughs a thundering laugh. "But on the other hand; you're asking if I'm for sale or something."

"I'm not buying so it doesn't matter,"

"But you're _thinking_ about it! And that. Is. The. Same. Thing." He wagged his index finger with a tut-tut-tut. "I saw you undressing me with your eyes, you sly dog you," he swats Arthur's elbow from across the table.

Arthur clears his throat and removes his cigarette. "How about…you to go fuck yourself?"

Alfred only laughs. His arms cross behind his head. "You are so weird." Says Alfred. Arthur opens his mouth to make a rebuttal when Alfred stands. "Seriously weird." He shakes his head and thin strands of blond curtain his eyes. "Too weird for my taste, I'm out."

"Leaving so soon?" Arthur curls around in his seat to look at the retreating Jones who backed to the door and bumped into a lady who giggled as he grabbed her shoulders and spun her into his arms.

"Sorry, didn't see you there, but _Arthur_ …" he winks and kissed the frazzled looking blonde on both cheeks. "You're a writer, right? You outta know these things." Alfred expertly spins the girl away from him, but kept her hand in a dainty grasp by his chest. "Always add a bit of mystery to the adventure. Who? What? When? Where? How?" With each question, he draws himself further and further out of the establishment.

"Alfred Jones, you area a _card_!" The woman gushed to the sidewalk, hand held against her own chest.

Arthur sniffed.

XXX

They fall into some sort of a pattern like this.

Alfred shows up on Tuesdays, unaccompanied.

Alfred presses a lemonade to the back of Arthur's neck. He pretends to be shocked when Arthur cruses.

At dinner they go to Ingrid's.

It always ends with a lecture—curtesy of Arthur—of why Alfred should really read his books.

Arthur stuffs his hands in his pockets with as much nonchalance he can muster. His head is tipped back with a cigarette between his lips, puffing and inhaling in the same instance. Alfred asks him about his latest book and Arthur smirks just a little bit. "It's good, you should read it."

Alfred laughs as if it's the first time he's ever heard such a thing. "Read. Funny."

The streets are darker than they have been in a long time. Though Arthur cannot see the stars in the streets, he still looks up and searches for them.

How incredible it would be to write about such a phenomenon.

"This one's very well received. It's about a prostitute, so it's relatable to you."

"Ass. Maybe you should write a story about a chain-smoker who dies at thirty because he makes fun of the jobless companions."

"Already have. Maybe if you weren't too busy sucking cock for cocaine, you'd know this by now."

"I'm glad you remembered me."

Arthur is startled out of a laugh before he can stop himself.

XXX

Nothing can compare the joy that Arthur feels when he finds Alfred hunched over one of his very own books one June evening.

A swell of pride knocks him into the loveseat next to him, and Arthur abandons his impending deadline seated at the typewriter. Alfred does not move from his spot, but instead flips a page. His cheeks never quite lose their rosy hue.

Quite remarkable.

"Do you like it?" Arthur himself is surprised by how quiet he is. Arthur puts a hand on Alfred's leg, and Alfred's screams are deafening. Arthur can almost feel a faint ringing in his ear.

"You _ASS_!" They both scream. They both flinch at the sound. Arthur mumbles curses under his breath, and Alfred nonchalantly stretches, throwing the book behind his head.

It hits the cat.

"Why do you always fucking molest me when I'm at your house?" He asks.

Arthur knows a deflection when he sees it. He's done it to Alfred before, and with twice as much grace. And he didn't have to hit a feline. "One: putting my hand on your leg doesn't mean anything. Maybe for you it means you haven't been paid yet, so I understand your reaction," Alfred repeats his name calling while Arthur continues, "Two: you can read my books all you want but you have to tell me which ones."

He wipes his hands on the legs of his trousers. "Please." He says. The sound is more aggressive than pleading, however.

Alfred bites his lip. "I don't know what you're talking about, I just fell and the book was open." Arthur rolls his eyes and looks over the backend of the loveseat.

"It fell open in your lap, and you happened to be looking down at your crotch."

"Happens all the time."

"Common occurrence, I agree." Arthur hums.

Alfred leans forward and searches for an edible scone off the coffee table. His shirt lifts and reveals the wonderful curve of his backside. Arthur appreciates it. Doesn't stop him from being an insufferable home-invader.

He was certain the Frenchman had given him a spare key. It was better than the idea that Alfred could break into his apartment and leave no traces. Though, the idea doesn't repulse Arthur as much as it used to. Granted, it's still an alarming idea. Arthur rolls his neck.

"Hey how old is this…macaroon?" Alfred turns over a scored pastry and taps his nails against it. _Thum-thum-thum._ That makes both of them recoil.

"That looks nothing like a macaroon you uncultured swine. It's a scone." Arthur doesn't exactly know how old the thing _is,_ per say. He'd taken a bite from one awhile back, and it was still edible. Not good, but that was because it was older than it should be. Alfred shouldn't complain. He shrugs instead, and takes a bite.

"Three: you hit my cat." Alfred leans back and brings the scone to his lips. "Unacceptable."

Alfred makes a pandering sound. "I'm sorry babe, did I beat your pussy too much?"

"Get out of my fucking house."

XXX

July is a lonely month, one without any publications. Arthur's only visitors are a Frog and an Eagle. The eagle often carries the frog on its graceless talons, and the frog carries wine on its sticky tongue. The three make a wondrous group, either drunk off their asses or sober and miserable.

Alfred had been introduced to a position that Arthur very much liked. He proudly declares one sweltering evening that he has an actual job. Francis cheers for him, clinks his wine glass with his own French teeth, and throws the liquid down his throat.

"A job where I can't be drinking all the time, either." Alfred gives a pointed look to each of them.

"So definitely not creative work." Says Arthur. Francis nods.

Alfred takes the third bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He twists the metal down, down, and down until the cork begin to slide up, up, and out. He wears a smile (Arthur still finds it irritating how the boy always seems to smile when he's insulted), a white collared shirt, and had removed his trousers after complaining about the heat. Arthur thanks whatever God will listen for this

Francis has also decided against trousers. This was usual, and uninteresting.

"Seriously, can we open a window or something? I'm dying in here." Alfred fills up his glass to the very top and sucks down half of it in a single gulp.

Francis smirks and curls into himself like a cat. "Methinks Arthur nailed the windows shut long ago, Alfred dear. We may as well take off the rest of your clothes." He closes his eyes and reaches to undo his tie. "I'll go first."

Arthur splashes what little wine was left in his glass on Francis' face. "Strip and you die, frog." He holds out his now empty glass to Alfred with two delicate, elongated fingers. "But Alfred can take off as many layers as he pleases, so long as it's free of charge." An aristocrat with the tongue of a sailor.

The boy makes an amused sound and trades his glass with Arthur's empty one. He smacks his lips together. "So I'm a stripper now? I thought I was a whore."

"A _well paid_ whore. Distinction. Subtle, but important." Arthur waves his free finger around. A conductor without a tune. Green meet blue. He blinks, slowly, and retreats into his seat comfortably. "So what do you do know then, mm? Charity work? Avenging loved ones in the heat of the afternoon? Rescue pussy in trees?"

"Deflowering in the parks?" Francis juts in. Alfred throws his neck back. He's laughing so loudly it's like a virus. Francis giggles around his glass of wine. Arthur smirks.

"Playing tug of war with the trouser snake?"

"Pulling the Ol' German Sausage?"

"Blowing up the old man's party balloon?"

"Sucking dick, but for free this time?"

As if hit in the chest by a demonic entity, Alfred falls to his knees, snorting and giggling and crying. There is a sick sense of satisfaction that wells up inside Arthur. He doesn't think the smile will leave his face. His wine glass rises to his lips, if only to conceal the smirk.

XXX

"I notice you've been spending a fair amount of time with our American friend." Is the tune that Francis is chirping. He repeats it while the two are alone, nursing hangovers with enthusiastic amounts of loathing. Chirping was too bright of a word for the Englishman, however, he preferred croaking.

A match is lit by a Briton, bright and lingering in the lamplight. Cigarettes are lit and inhaled like medication between the two of them, smoke wrapping and reaching for the stars themselves. It takes five minutes of unanswered pestering for Francis to give up.

An interesting coincidence:

His brother finds his ventures to the writer's abode interesting, and presses him for information as to why. Alfred looks down at the limp cigarette between his fingers. He smiles lazily.

"I just like the guy."

XXX

"You've been places and seen things, yeah?" Arthur asks idly one afternoon. Francis is there, too, regrettably. He's marking up a draft of Arthur's latest chapter with an ornate pen. _His_ hand is on Alfred's thigh. The sight makes Arthur uncomfortable.

Alfred looks up from his sketchbook. "Me or Frenchy?"

"I'm doing the Lord's work, _mon cher_ , he means you." _His_ voice is still between a belly-ached bullfrog and a foggy pool of champagne. However, he does his marking best when intoxicated, so Arthur keeps him around.

"Oh, um, yeah I guess. The states, I mean. I've seen most of of 'em."

"Where are you from, then?" He asks. Francis raises his eyebrows and makes a show of marking a grammatical error. He writes something on the paper and holds it up to show Alfred. He gives a little giggle.

"A place where the Pope would have to shit in the woods."

Francis feels up Alfred's kneecap. "Oh, that's good. Have you used that Arthur? You should put that in here somewhere."

"No, where are you really from?"

Arthur has nothing else to talk about. He flips his pen around his thumb. Francis has always been a touchy-feely lecherous drunk. Maybe Alfred, like Arthur, has gotten used to his constant groping. Alfred _clearly_ wanted nothing more than to enter Arthur's house and claim it as his own. He stacked boxes and brought brandy every Saturday afternoon.

Alfred's busy drawing something. He squints down at the paper and makes a few sketch marks. Arthur makes a face. "Are you going to answer me?"

"Huh?" Alfred looks up. "Oh, uh, South Dakota."

Francis lazily searches for his reading glasses on the other side of Alfred's waist. "Mm, you said Oklahoma last time didn't you?"

Alfred picks up the purple frames a foot from his side. There's so much room on that sofa. Why doesn't he just move over? Arthur's brows furrow just as Alfred looks up. "Massachusetts."

Francis is giggling, which means that Alfred is giggling. Arthur is scowling. He looks at the clock. "Could you go get some lunch for us, Alfred? And some water for our dear lecherous frog." Francis' eyes flutter to Alfred. "I fear for his head tomorrow."

Alfred agrees by standing, stretching, and adjusting his glasses. "Oh, and something came up tonight. I can't make it to Ingrid's, sorry. But there's this new picture coming out soon that we should see sometime! Not tomorrow. But sometime!" His grin is sunshine and moonlight. "Just keep your schedule free for me."

Arthur grunts and watches Alfred leave. Francis whistles lowly, and the door shuts. "What the fuck was that?"

Francis throws his hands into the air. "I know, it's been so long since he's worn those trousers. I was starting to think he'd destroyed them, god forbid."

Arthur would agree, but he doesn't. "He's been going on runs again, too."

"Really?" Francis' voice is played like a church organ.

"Yes. Invites me to come along sometimes." He always looks so defeated when Arthur says no.

"You should come with him." Francis has a smile twinging at his lips.

"I should." Says Arthur.

"You should go running and pretend to have heat stroke… and run into a mattress store."

"I like where this is going."

"And he gets you water, but it's actually brandy."

"Considerate."

"Then you fuck him."

Arthur hisses. "What is wrong with us?" He swivels his chair and falls forward.

" _So_ many things."

XXX

Arthur waits. Seeing Alfred gives him warmth. That warmth is behind an iron guard. "Don't waste my time. If you have something to say, you can say it at the door."

He barely had time to finish his sentence before Alfred blurted. "Francis and I aren't together." He grimaced. "That wasn't what I meant to say, I mean, it was. But, not like that. Shit. Do you wanna…grab dinner? Actual dinner. Not that Ingrid's isn't dinner. I mean like a fancy place."

"Fine." His throat is tight. He hates himself for being so short with him. It may be a defense mechanism, but it doesn't mean it's completely out of his control. "I thought you had somewhere to be tonight."

He doesn't like the way that sounds either. Too dry. Harsh. Cruel.

"I do, did. I had to pick up my brother from the train station. Tomorrow I was going to show him around town. I was going to invite you to meet him, actually, but then you left and I couldn't keep the cab waiting. But, I mean, I send Francis to pick him up so it will be fine. My brother will get home. I'm pretty sure Francis knows where I live." Arthur laughs cruelly. The other tries to smile. It's wavy. "What's wrong?"

"Do you know Francis at all?" Arthur asks between snorts of laughter. Alfred smiles a bit more easily. "Really? At _all_?"

Alfred rolls his eyes. "You're weird." His voice is lower. Less frantic. That's good. "God, you're really weird."

"Oh you have no idea," Arthur licks his lips. "Take me to the film instead and I'll forgive you."

XXX

It isn't until September when they fall into bed together.

It's wonderful and sweet, something to write about.

Only, Arthur won't.

He wants this keep the love scene to himself.

He doesn't stop smiling for the next two weeks. Francis is afraid.

XXX

Alfred leaves in the middle of November.

Off to fight in some stupid war that he has no business fighting in.

Alfred promises to write with an unnaturally bright smile. He holds Arthur's hands and promises to return with a shiny medal to hang up next to all of Arthur's awards. He releases Arthur's hands and cracks his knuckles and his neck.

Arthur tells him to come home.

Alfred laughs and Arthur grabs his face to quiet him.

"Come. Home."

He stops laughing.

XXX

Postcards.

Arthur cringes every time he sees on in the mailroom. And then he flips the gaudy picture of an American city over and reads the cramped script. He leans up against the wall, and does not know why he smiles. He never knows why he smiles.

Sometimes there are little hand drawn pictures on the postcards. Hearts. Smiling faces. Mostly, stars.

Arthur, however, is not so crude. With every postcard received, Arthur stomps up to his apartment and types his own letter back. Sometimes it's a page long. Other times, six. Each letter is positively dripping with a mixture of tenderness and sarcasm that Arthur never thought possible.

He ends each letter in the same way.

"Come. Home."

He signs his name.

Alfred is an amazing star. He is the brightest thing in Arthur's life.

XXX

Alfred is dead.

XXX

Arthur cannot move, but he feels himself fall.

He cannot speak, but he hears himself scream.

Time has stopped, but he sees Francis slam open the door to his beiged office. He sees Francis' feet as they run toward him.

He cannot feel Francis try and pick him up.

He rips the letter into fifteen pieces.

He tries to throw it out the window, but fears he would jump after it.

It's too much.

XXX

Alfred coughs. He shakes, his hands feel like lead. His feet are cold and wet. His boots, gone. Where are they?

A picture.

Alfred can see a picture in his hand. It's faded, ripped on one corner. Alfred had been holding it before all this.

He coughs again, hacking up some vile mucousy substance.

A pretty picture.

A picture of New York City in September.

It was hot there, Alfred smiles.

A happy young man with the stars behind him and his hands on his hips.

An older, prettier man to his right. He stands proudly beside him, a smirk that hasn't evolved into a smile.

Alfred can barely breathe now. Something is filling his lungs. What is it? He doesn't know.

He feels tears.

He feels nothing.

XXX

Arthur has not bicycled in thirty years.

It feels awkward to do it now, full grown. There's a basket behind him that chimes with every mild bump Arthur crosses. It's awfully annoying. So is the squeaking the pedals make. Arthur is sure that that's not supposed to happen.

He bikes through the countryside. The heat is bearable, and the wind has a mild temper today. It's wonderful to have brush back his hair. The streets are graveled and bumpy, but that makes them interesting.

Arthur still likes interesting things .

He bikes for twenty minutes on a good day like today. "It is a good day, isn't it?" He thinks. Yes, it's a good day.

The bike has no kickstand, so Arthur lets it fall after retrieving what he needs.

"Too much shit. I always bring too much shit." A picture frame, a book, a bottle, reading glasses, and a pen and pad of paper. He drops a bottle on the grass. It doesn't break, so Arthur kicks it over to his favorite spot.

Under a tall oak, there is a lovely bit of shade Arthur likes to rest in.

"I hope you're happy that I'm doing this for you."

He is.

Arthur was never very good at writing endings to his stories. They were never true to life, he felt. They were always filled with some message that he tried to cram in at the end of his tales. Not for the readers, of course, but for himself.

The lying whore was a good person.

The murderer was doing what he thought was right.

Romance was never a large part of Arthur's life, nor would it ever be. He did not know how to write it, but felt he was getting a better grasp on it. With Alfred, his story was becoming too sappy and awful. Not in the good way.

A man sits next to him, bright and cheerful. Old.

"I'm writing another dreadful ending." Arthur smiles. He hears something vaguely like laughter.

"How can you write an ending?" He asks.

Arthur clears his throat. "It's not an ending. It's more of a bad dream situation. I'm told writing down my dreams is supposed to help you. Very new age-y."

"Sounds boring."

"Extremely. Well, you died in it."

Alfred laughs. He has more laugh lines than Arthur does, which deepen with each bellow. He still wheezes though, and it still scares Arthur. "Why do I always die in your dreams?"

They are too old to be drinking, says the doctor. Arthur doesn't believe her. He opens the bottle and shrugs. "I can't have a happy ending in my stories, I'm blessed in that way."

"If that's the case I'm breaking up with you."

Arthur laughs, takes a swig from the wine. Francis recommended it. He's old, too. When did they get so old?

"I had the dream again. It still hurts to think about." Arthur barely mutters. The sun is beginning to set. It paints beautiful colors across the sky.

"You already told me." Alfred sighs. He reaches for the wine. "And you can't get rid of me so easily, remember? I'm annoying and interesting and you love me."

Arthur smiles. He can just barely see the stars start to show their faces. They're beautiful, still.

"Thankfully."

XXX

A/N: Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think of this behemoth! You're a champ for sticking it out.


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